Chapter One
by Arienhod
Summary: Before he became a consulting detective Sherlock Holmes was just a junkie who could solve cases, if only they would let him. And then one person changed the course of his life.
1. Chapter 1

**I needed more attempts to write a disclaimer then I did writing this story. But eventually I completed it. And here it is:**

**I don't own anything.**

* * *

It was sergeant Sally Donovan who first noticed the unwanted presence at the most recent crime scene. He was back again and that annoyed the woman. If it was for her he would have already been arrested for obstruction of justice or perhaps tempering with evidence. But her superior, detective inspector Greg Lestrade, was obviously far more tolerable towards the stinking junkie.

She forgot the man's name, he only mentioned it once when he showed up inside the police line few weeks ago and was promptly escorted away by a constable. The fool was high that night and claimed he could solve the crime faster then anyone at the Yard.

Obviously he was wrong cause he claimed it was a murder when it was by all means an accident.

She noticed the man observing her closely and sighed. Time to inform the boss he's back.

Greg Lestrade was inside the flat of a young woman that was found dead in her bathroom with her wrists cut.

The sight scared her best friend, who found the deceased woman, and she still had a hard time describing the events that led to her coming to flat.

She was in a process of describing the dead woman's schedule when Donovan appeared on the doorway, "Sir, I hate to disturb you, but he's back."

Lestrade sighed, "I'll deal with him in a moment."

"I don't understand…" the distressed woman opposite of him wept, "She was finally over him, she was moving on…"

"Thank you for your help." Lestrade said, squeezing her hand a bit in comfort, "I'll have someone drive you home."

"Thank you." She muttered.

Greg stood up and turned towards his right hand woman, "Where is he?"

"Outside." She responded with a frown, "Outside of the police line this time." she then lowered her voice and asked, "And this? Suicide?"

The detective inspector nodded, "It appears that way. From what the friend told me Miss Julie Sawyer just went through a bad breakup with her fiancé and was depressed. Obviously she wasn't doing better like the friend thought. The guys are still gathering evidence but it seems to be an open and shut case."

When they stepped out into the cold evening both were forced to button up their coats to shield themselves from the strong wind. A wind that didn't seem to bother the figure in tracksuit that stood alone right outside the yellow line, with a constable few feet away from him.

"Ah, detective. Came to seek my assistance? Good, you are learning." Sherlock said and tried to go under the plastic tape but was stopped by the uniformed man on his right.

"The case is closed. Go home." Lestrade said.

Sherlock snorted, "You? Closing the case so fast. What did you rule it to be? An accident like the last time you refused my help and messed out? Don't you see you need my help?!"

"What I need is you not showing up on crime scenes anymore." Greg Lestrade said with a frown, "You are high and I don't want you anywhere near the evidence. I'm not having a junkie compromising my case just so he could play detective."

"Playing… playing detective!" Sherlock instantly protested and started to wave his hands around, "I am offering you my help and this is how you repay me? No wonder your wife is cheating on you again!"

Greg gaped at him, "What…? My wife is not-"

"Oh please… even you can't be that blind not to notice. Shirt not ironed properly, a clear sigh you've been doing it yourself, since she suddenly doesn't have the time anymore. Grease stain on the shoe, preparing your own food. Flirting with a constable when you arrived, so sexually frustrated."

"Alright! That's enough!" Greg suddenly snapped, "We are done here and we are done without your help! So go away! And don't show up on any more crime scenes. People will start to suspect you are showing up to enjoy your own work."

Sherlock snorted, "Of please… if I ever offed anyone you would never even find the body."

"Freak." Donovan, who stood behind her superior the whole time, muttered.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the woman he didn't even notice until then. She simply wasn't important enough in his eyes. But now he made sure to remember every single detail about Sergeant Sally Donovan.

Right down to the perfume she used.

Detective inspector Lestrade gave a sigh of relief when Sherlock Holmes turned around and walked away. But he had to give the junkie credit.

Looking down on his own shoes Greg noticed the stain from last night when he poured still moist potatoes in hot oil. Seconds later there was oil everywhere, including his suit that was still waiting to be washed because his wife didn't have the time.

Looking back Greg wondered how he never connected all the dots into a conclusion his wife was having an affair.

* * *

Sherlock was fuming. Here he was offering in assisting that detective so he would finally solve a case correctly and it gets thrown back in his face. And all just cause he used a bit heroin. He could solve a case high much faster and much more efficiently then the entire New Scotland Yard.

Idiots, all of them.

Wondering away from the scene of a crime, and it was a crime no matter what that detective claimed, he noticed he wasn't all that far away from where his preferred dealer was usually hanging.

Since he was now bored Sherlock took a left turn and found himself fact to face with a man in a young leather jacket.

"Just the man I was looking for." Sherlock said.

The man smiled, "Back so soon?"

"The idiots wouldn't listen to me. I've seen the body as it was wheeled out, the wind took the sheet away. It was definitely murder." Sherlock started to rant, ignoring a disgusted look on the dealer's face. For someone who sold illegal substance he was rather squeamish.

"So you came to me." the dealer placed a hand in his inner pocket to get the merchandise.

Sherlock shrugged and ran a hand thought his matted curls, "They wouldn't give me what I need so I had to get it elsewhere."

It took Sherlock good ten minutes to find a perfect spot where he wouldn't be disturbed, behind the deceiving facade of the house in Leinster Gardens. Not many people knew that the front is all there was, and it's been that way since 1860's when the original steam engine-hauled underground railway that had a short section exposed to the surface.

He had everything he need in the deep inner pocket of his tracksuit jacket. A spoon, lighter and still packed syringes and needles.

If someone asked Sherlock Holmes if he was addicted he would have said 'no', he was only using to slow down his ever racing mind. But that evening his mind failed to register he was still under influence of the previous hit. And then he added more drugs in his already drugged system.

And the system shut down.

That was how a homeless man found him. Slumped on the ground, a bag with powder residue next to him with an old spoon keeping it company. And a syringe still embedded in the crook of his elbow.

Instantly the homeless man ran out where his companion was waiting while he checked if the coast was clear.

"Doc! Doc! There is a guy in there! He overdosed!"

The homeless that was known as Doc by others that shared that fate rushed in through the door into the house that wasn't one. And there, just few feet away from the entrance, was a lifeless body of a man.

As any physician would, Doc instantly checked the symptoms. And they were all there.

Sherlock's breathing was slow, barely even noticeable, and his pulse was weak. In the faint light Doc, who opened the eyes of the unknown man in front, could also see his pupils are extremely small. And when his skin slowly started to turn blue Doc knew if he didn't get help soon he would die.

"Where is the nearest telephone box?" Doc asked the homeless man standing in the background.

"Too far away." was the answer he gave. When Doc sighed and started to dig through the unconscious man's pockets he was confused, "What are you doing?"

"Looking for something. I can't help him."

"To steal?" it made no sense, Doc was always helping them when they needed assistance with smaller things that didn't require them going to one of free clinics.

"No." Doc answered and pulled out a phone from Sherlock's sock and right away checked the contacts, "He has only one number stored. Call the paramedics and then call this Mycroft."

"And you?"

"I can't be here. I can't be mentioned in any records. I'm sorry but I have to go."

* * *

Mycroft Holmes, the man that was British Government, was just leaving his office when the cell phone in his pocket started to ring. It was a melody he never heard before, a melody he assigned to his brother's contact number. The fact Sherlock was calling instead of texting made him highly suspicious, and a bit apprehensive.

"Yes, Sherlock?" he said as a greeting.

"Hallo?" an unknown voice said on the other side of the line and Mycroft almost groaned. He suspected some fool stole his brother's phone and then actually called the number in the address book. Really, criminals these days were getting dumber and dumber.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I'm in 23 Leinster Gardens, behind the façade. There is a man here, unconscious, he overdosed." At the word 'overdosed' a cold feeling rushed through Mycroft and he started to walk faster towards the car that waited for him, "This phone was in his pocket."

"Have you called the paramedics?" Mycroft instantly asked, mentally hoping the unknown man had a brain in his head, as he sat in the back seat and informed his driver about their destination.

"Yes, right away."

"Good." The older Holmes brother said, "Do not move. I am on my way."

Mycroft disconnected the call and sighed. He warned Sherlock it will happen if he starts using again, but his brother wasn't listening to him. Yes, he went to rehab after mommy caught wind of his addiction but Mycroft always had his suspicion about Sherlock's ability to remain clean.

And now his fears have come true.

Paramedic's vehicle was already on the scene, red and blue lights flashing in the night. As he got out of the car he saw them placing a stretcher at the back of the van, his brother's body lying motionlessly on top.

One of the paramedics noticed him approaching and went to meet him, "The homeless man that reported the case said someone was coming. I'm presuming that's you."

"Yes." Mycroft answered, "Mycroft Holmes. Your new patient is my brother Sherlock."

"Alright, that will help us a lot. We will need his general information, he will be transported to Saint Bartholomew."

Mycroft nodded, "Of course. Is the homeless man still present? I would like to talk to him."

The paramedic pointed at the thin man standing next to the open doors of the house where Sherlock overdosed, "He's right over there. I had no idea that house was just front walls."

Mycroft muttered a, "Thank you." And walked past him. He wasn't in the mood of listen to someone describing his awe about something that should be taught in a history class.

When Mycroft came close enough to the homeless man he did quick deductions about him based on his appearance. Wasn't anything suspicious… or impressive.

"The phone." The man said and offered Sherlock's cell phone.

"What were you doing in the house?" he asked suspiciously.

The homeless man shrugged, "Looking for a sheltered place to stay overnight. It's starting to get really cold outside and we didn't want to stay in the park or someplace like that."

"We?" Mycroft continued his course of interrogation.

"Doc and I."

"And who is this Doc and where is he?"

"Doc is like me… you know… homeless. Stayed to check on the guy that overdosed, found the phone in his pocket and told me to call for help and the contact in the address book and then left." He said honestly. He had nothing to hide.

But it seemed to Mycroft this Doc had something he wanted to remain hidden, "What is Doc's name?"

"No idea, Doc is new. Doesn't really hand out with anyone but helps us all in case of smaller injury." The homeless man suddenly stood a bit straighter, he understood what Mycroft was suspicious about, "Doc isn't a junkie or a criminal. Just doesn't want to show up on some official record."

"Sounds like someone who has something to hide." Mycroft muttered before turning away and walking towards the black car that waited for him. He needed to go to the hospital and check on his younger brother. The questions about this 'Doc' will have to wait.

* * *

Anthea, Mycroft Holmes' personal assistant, did an amazing job rearranging his meetings and canceling his appearance on less important events, she even managed to ensure some meetings happened over the phone and not face to face. She was a miracle worker. And all that to enable her employer more time he could spend on his brother's side. Not that the said brother, in her personal opinion, deserved so much attention.

Two days later what Mycroft was patiently awaiting happened. Sherlock slowly opened his eyes.

And instantly shut them again seeing his brother sitting next to his bed.

"I know you are awake, Sherlock. No use of pretending." He said calmly.

Sherlock, being as childish as possible while in his brother's company, muttered, "If I knew you were here I would have stayed unconscious."

"If you weren't found on time you would have died, Sherlock!" Mycroft lost his cool, something that happened in extremely rare situations. But strangely always in his brother's presence.

"No, I wouldn't." Sherlock argued back.

The older Holmes shook his head, he knew his younger sibling and knew he would argue him just for the sake of arguing. It didn't matter if they both knew Mycroft was right, Sherlock would never admit such a thing. Especially if it meant he was wrong.

"You were unconscious for two days."

"And you've been by my side this whole time? Mycroft, I had no idea you care." Sherlock mocked. For someone who was lost to the world for 48 hours he was recovering surprisingly well despite only being awake for few minutes.

"Well, I do. Which is why I'm giving you an option. Either rehab-"

"No." Sherlock interrupted his brother mid-sentence.

"Or I will inform mommy her younger son flat lined on his way to the hospital after overdosing on heroin." Mycroft completed what he had to say and watched with a satisfying smirk as his words finally reached his sibling.

"You won't."

"I will."

"Fine!" Sherlock snapped after few minutes of silence.

"Fine." Mycroft repeated calmly and started to type a message to Anthea. He trusted she would find a rehabilitation clinic suitable for a grown child that is Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

3 months later Sherlock was on his way to a flat he now lived in, in Baker Street. He met Martha Hudson, his new landlady, several years ago in America while he went to university there.

It was an attempt to get always from Mycroft and his meddling and supervision. An attempt that didn't work as planed. It was there that he first started using heroin, a habit that followed him back to England. A habit that he was now free of.

But he was smart enough to know he would never be free of the temptation.

"You look better." A man said, causing Sherlock to stop in his track and turn around.

There, a homeless man stood, observing Sherlock from head to toe and nodding with a small smile, like he was pleased with what he saw.

Since Mycroft told him the details of the night he overdosed Sherlock was aware it was a homeless man that called for help.

"You were the one that found me in Leinster Gardens." He concluded.

And despite it wasn't a question the unknown man answered, "Yep. You looked dead at first."

"I was told I would have been if you had found me only few minutes later."

"Yeah, Doc suspected too that might have been the case."

"Doc?" Sherlock asked.

"Doc was with me, checked you out."

"And you are?" Sherlock suddenly found himself asking, without knowing exactly why.

"They call me the Wiggy." The homeless man responded with a small grin.

"Nope."

"Bill Wiggins. At your service."

Blue eyes watched the younger man dressed in dirty jeans and a jumper that seen better days closely as Sherlock tried to understand why he didn't even noticed this Billy Wiggins until the man spoke. He was always aware of his surroundings. It made no sense.

So why did he oversee this homeless man?

"Well, thank you Billy… but I doubt I would be in need of your service."

* * *

Sally Donovan had no idea how the freak learned about the case but he did. He was right there, outside of the police line, watching them with a small smile. Figures a psycho like him would consider a woman committing suicide to be amusing.

She missed the last few months when he wasn't showing up uninvited and most definitely unwanted.

So she shook her head and went in the building. She didn't want to deal with the freak, her boss who kept claiming they have no reason to arrest him can do it.

"Donovan, I was just-" detective inspector Lestrade started to speak but was interrupted with words he hoped never to hear again.

"He's back."

"Who is?" the victim's husband asked, "Who's back?"

"Just someone who is willing to assist me with cases." Lestrade right away tried to calm the man down before doing downstairs to deal with Sherlock.

"Like a consulting detective?" the man asked.

Donovan instantly snorted in amusement but flinched when Lestrade sent her a glare. That was very unprofessional from her and she knew it.

"Something like that, yes." The DI confirmed before standing up to leave, "I'll be in touch if I have more questions."

"Yes, of course."

The two police officers left the flat and walked out only to see Sherlock not on his place where he supposed to be, namely behind the police line that was there to keep the civilians like him away. Instead he was next to the van that would transport the dead woman's body to the morgue.

And to their horror he was peeking into the body bag.

"Oi, Sherlock! What the hell do you think you are doing?!" Lestrade right away snapped at him and rushed to zip the black bag again.

"You obviously need my help. You still haven't caught the guy." Sherlock said arrogantly.

"What guy?" Donovan snapped, "You just saw the body, it was clearly a suicide."

She was pissed when the curly haired man rolled his eyes on her words and turn towards Lestrade, completely ignoring her, "The marks on her neck are not consistent with a suicide. If she did in fact hanged herself the rope mark wouldn't be horizontal, it would be more diagonal with the mark from the knot at the back on her head really close to her hairline." Sherlock started to fire out deductions, "The marks match the case of strangulation. She was hanged afterwards to cover up the crime. And no, her husband didn't do it. The same man that killed the previous four women did it. And each time you ruled it out as a suicide. Really Gareth, and I thought you were one of the smart ones in Scotland Yard."

"I didn't role anything, the pathologist that did the post-mortems did." Lestrade pointed out and then added as an aftermath, "And my name is Greg."

Sherlock merely waived his hand, "I've met that pathologist and I'm quite shocked someone so incompetent could finish medical school. So… I will need the files of-"

"Now hold on just a minute! I am not giving you any files!" the detective inspector started to really lose his patience with the younger man. He could see the logic in some of the things he said but he wasn't willing to break protocol, "You would need to be part of the Yard to have access to them."

"So I'll just be a consultant." Sherlock suggested like that would solve all the problems.

Donovan snorted, remembering what the victim's husband said, "What, a consulting detective?"

Sherlock instantly stood straighter, "Yes, I believe that is exactly what I would be… what I am. A consulting detective."

"There is no such job position." The sergeant pointed out.

"So I'll just be the only one in the world. Not a surprise really, considering how stupid the rest of the population is."

"Okay, that's it." Lestrade snapped, "No case files and no more looking through your fingers. Next time you cross a line, any line, and I will have you arrested. Are we clear?"

Sherlock frowned, "Fine, I will solve it without you."

"Yes, do that and I just might ask for your help with other cases." The DI said sarcastically, "Mr. Consulting detective."

Greg Lestrade sighed as he watched Sherlock stomp away from the scene. He had a feeling dealing with Sherlock Holmes will cause him to go gray far sooner then he expected.

* * *

While in the cab, on his way to 221B Baker Street, Sherlock noticed the same homeless man he met before. Wiggins. The one who offered him help.

Seeing how homeless people tend to go unnoticed he wondered if perhaps one of several of them saw something, someone, suspicious near the scene of the crime.

"Stop the car." He told the cabbie and paid before exiting the black vehicle and approaching the man dressed in the same garb as yesterday.

Bill Wiggins watched his come closer and stood up, "What can I do for you, mate?"

Sherlock handed him a 20 pound note and said, "I need information."

And it was money well spend. Because it took Wiggins less then 24 hours to come knocking on the front door of 221B Baker Street.

It was Mrs. Hudson who opened the door for him; Sherlock was kind enough to bellow to inform her there was someone at the door. Instantly she frowned. When Sherlock told her early that morning that he expected someone to bring him information regarding a case he expected anything but the homeless man she sometimes saw on the street.

"Ma'am, I am here to see Sherlock Holmes. Is he home?" Bill used every bit of his manners after coming face to face with an older lady.

"Yes." She answered shortly and opened the door wider for him to enter, "He's upstairs. You can't miss it; the door is open as always."

"Are you his housekeeper?" he asked curiously.

Mrs. Hudson huffed, "I'm his landlady. Although he sometimes mixes those two things."

She watched with a frown as the homeless man nodded before heading upstairs. She couldn't help but wonder what kind of information Sherlock could possibly need that would come from someone who lived on the street.

"Mr. Holmes?" Wiggins called as he approached the wide opened door of the upper flat.

"Hm…" came from the prone figure on the couch. He looked like he was sleeping except his palms were connected under the chin, giving the impression he was praying. For what, Wiggins had no idea.

"You requested that I get you information." He clarified and was startled when the man on the couch suddenly jumped.

"Yes, what do you have? Witnesses, evidence… what?"

Wiggins knew what he was to say would probably be met with a lot of skepticism but it came from a reliable source, at least in his opinion, "Well… I have the name…"

"Of the witness. What is it?" Sherlock was impatient.

"No. Of the killer."

"What?" it was rarely Sherlock Holmes was left baffled but today was the day when just three words threw him off.

"I asked around just like you wanted. I got information that she was last of five victims." Hearing that Sherlock instantly pushed Wiggins away from the doorway and into a worn red armchair before sitting opposite of him and holding a finger up, signaling he should wait just a bit before saying what he came to say.

Quickly he dialed a number that the owner didn't even know Sherlock had.

"Hello, detective inspector Lestrade." He greeted after a 'hello' from the other side.

"_How in the world did you get my number?"_ Greg Lestrade asked, rather irritated that he doesn't seem to get a break.

"I have my ways. And I also have information that you might be interested in."

"_And what is that?"_

"I have a name of the man you are looking for, a man responsible for five murders."

"_Those were suicides."_ Lestrade rolled his eyes, and although Sherlock couldn't see it he had a pretty good guess he did just that.

"Wiggins, what is his name?" Sherlock asked his guest.

"_Now wait a moment!"_ Greg protested, _"Who is Wiggins?"_

"My informant." Sherlock responded before focusing on the man opposite of him, "Well?"

"You are looking a man named Andrew Moriarty."

"_According to whom?"_ Lestrade asked.

"Doc."

They could hear a groan coming from the cell phone, _"Alright, fine. I'll check the name. But… I want to meet this Doc."_

Sherlock looked at Wiggins who shrugged, "I'll ask. But there is no way Doc would be willing to go to Scotland Yard. Probably won't even be willing to do anything on the record."

"_Then I can't do anything."_ Lestrade said.

"I'm presuming that's the same Doc as the one who was with you when you found me." Sherlock said.

"Yep."

"In that case send him here to Baker Street. Will that work for you Lestrade?"

A grumbling voice on the other side of the line responded, _"Fine. Which number?"_

"221B. " Sherlock responded smugly. He always liked it when he managed to get people to do what he wanted, what was right.

"_Let me know when the guy comes over and I'll get there."_ Lestrade finalized the conversation and disconnected the call.

"Today?" Wiggins asked Sherlock after he placed his cell phone on the small round side table next to the armchair.

"Today."

* * *

It was late in the evening when a knock made Sherlock shout for Mrs. Hudson to open the door and let his guest, who finally arrived hours later then he expected him to, inside the building. When no one responded, probably doe to his landlady taking her herbals soothers, and another knock was heard he sighed.

He had to do everything by himself.

So like a child Sherlock stomped down the sleight of stairs and wrenched the door open.

A homeless person in front of him flinched slightly at the sudden movement and he rolled his eyes. This would be a long evening.

"Get inside." Sherlock instructed, "Up the stairs."

The homeless known as Doc followed instruction and climbed the stairs and stopped at the entrance of the large sitting room. Sherlock once more rolled his eyes and pushed past, this time not noticing the flinch as he pushed his guest aside slightly.

But he did notice the odor.

So instead of ordering the man to sit down and tell him everything he knew about the killings and this Andrew Moriarty he went to his bedroom and dug out some old tracksuit bottoms and a washed out shirt with a hole at the side. It wasn't something he would mind parting with and it would be put to a good use.

Namely getting that stench out of his flat.

"You." He pointed at the homeless man that was still frozen at the same spot, "There are some spare clothes in the bathroom and a plastic bag. Go and take a shower, you are welcome to use my products, do not come out until you stopped smelling like a sewage system. The bag is for your current clothes, particularly that abomination you seem to use as a hat. Tie it up as tightly as you can."

Doc nodded silently and rushed past him. Instantly Sherlock made a face of pure disgust as a whiff of the unwashed clothes combined with living on the streets reached him. It was truly disgusting.

But something he was willing to endure to catch a serial killer that was so far smart enough to elude the police. Not that that was such a hard thing to do.

They were idiots, every single one of them.

After he texted detective inspector Lestrade Sherlock spent the next half an hour listening to the shower going on and off as his guest was attempting to remove the revolting smell from his very pores. At least someone was following his orders.

"Sherlock?" he heard Lestrade's voice calling him as he was coming up the stairs, "You said I should just come up. Do you even lock those doors?"

"Sometimes."

Lestrade shook his head. He knew lecture any about the safely would go to deaf ears.

"So, where is this Doc?" he asked instead, "Hopefully he'll be able to explain to me why I was doing a background check on someone that doesn't exist anywhere."

"He is… oh…" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and stared open-mouthed at the individual standing behind the detective inspector.

"What?" Lestrade asked, not noticing Sherlock's gaze was no longer on him.

"There is always something." He heard Sherlock mutter.

"What now?" the DI already started to suspect it was all a waste of time.

"My deductions are usually correct, but from time to time a small error… happens." He suddenly moved past Lestrade, confusing the older man, "Hallo, Doc."

"He's already here?" Lestrade asked, "Why haven't you… said… so?"

Sherlock moved so he no longer stood between the homeless man and Greg Lestrade giving the detective inspector a clear view of the man he came to talk to.

Only it wasn't a man.

In the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, looking rather small in oversized clothes and shaking slightly, stood a woman with long brown, currently wet and tangled, hair and warm brown eyes.

* * *

**If you find any mistakes please let me know so I can correct them.**

**Thank you for reading.**


	2. Chapter 2

In the kitchen of 221B Baker Street, looking rather small in oversized clothes and shaking slightly, stood a woman with long brown, currently wet and tangled, hair and warm brown eyes.

"I was not expecting this." Greg Lestrade mumbled as he observed the young woman that blanched at his attention.

"Neither have I." Sherlock said looking down at the small homeless woman standing just few feet away from him, "I referred you as male several times while talking to Wiggins and he hadn't corrected me once. Why is that?" he asked her.

Brown eyes were focused on her bare toes and she did everything to make appear even smaller. And after few seconds of not getting a response Sherlock already started to think she would never answer when she finally spoke, "Because I asked it of him after we became friends, soon after I became homeless."

He observed her with a frown, "Who are you hiding from?"

She gasped and looked up at him, "How do you know that?"

An arrogant smile appeared on Sherlock's face, "I deduced it. Now, answer my question. Who are you hiding from?"

"Moriarty." She answered.

The detective inspector that observed everything with interest suddenly groaned, "Look miss, I'm trying to solve a case. I can't go around chasing ghosts just cause you are trying to get away from your ex boyfriend!"

The woman flinched at his loud voice and Sherlock sent him a glare, making Lestrade apologize. Carefully Sherlock took his guest by her forearm and led her towards the armchairs. But instead of instructing her to sit there he took a normal wooden chair away from the table and placed it in the middle of the room, in between the two armchairs.

"Sit down." he said shortly and she did as told, Lestrade following suit and taking a seat into the old red armchair and Sherlock in his favorite black leather one. Once everyone were comfortable, some more then other cause the red armchair was old and lumpy and the wooden chair lacked a pillow, Sherlock focused on the homeless woman, "What is your name? I seriously doubt it's Doc."

"It's not. It's a title the homeless network gave me after I helped few of them." She answered before introducing herself, "My name is Molly Hooper."

"You are in medical profession?" Greg asked and she shook her head.

"No, just a medical student. Or at least I was one. Before Andrew Moriarty showed up." She added the last part with bitterness in her voice.

Sherlock was intrigued, "Why don't you tell us more about it."

The woman, Molly Hooper, gulped before starting to tell them the story not even those in the homeless network who were closest to her knew.

"Like I said, I was a medical student when I first met Andrew Moriarty. I was studying to become a Special register, a pathologist; I was close to graduating too. But then one evening I was walking to my dorm room after some laboratory classes and he was waiting for me there. He was older then me, in his forties or so, and dressed impeccably. His suit was either imported or made especially for him because I've never seen one like it before, or after. Anyway… when I came closer he called me by my name, he knew exactly who I was. And he knew other things too. He knew I was an orphan and struggled with money, he knew how I stood with grades. He even knew the theme of my final dissertation, and I never mentioned it to anyone."

"Then what?" Lestrade asked after she suddenly got silent.

"Then he offered to finance me, paying for anything I may need. It sounded really good at first. Then he said in return once I started working in a morgue, he didn't specify which one but it didn't seem like it mattered really, I would repay him for his kindness by doing him small favors every now and then."

"Destroying evidence." Sherlock commented and Molly nodded.

"I thought so too, that's why I refused his offer."

"What did he do then?" the detective inspector asked. He wasn't completely convinced what she was telling is the truth but the story intrigued him nevertheless.

"He looked angry, like I insulted him."

"He is most likely used to people doing as he wants. Having someone refuse him…" Sherlock mused out loud.

"Few days later I heard some students talking about the University server being hacked. I didn't think much about it then, thought it was someone fooling enough to think he can change his grades or find an exam and maybe sell the answers. Then I got called in by the administration. They called in some guy from IT and he tracked the hacker back to his location. I didn't understand most of the words he used… only that the network was accessed from my dorm room." Molly looked down on her hands, resting in her lap. It was difficult to talk about that part of her life. Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if she would have been better of if she accepted Andrew Moriarty's offer.

"You were expelled." Sherlock concluded from her silence.

Molly nodded, "Yes. I was told they won't call the police because nothing was stolen but they can't disregard the intrusion. I was told to go to my dorm, pack my things and leave."

"Did he contact you again?" Lestrade asked. To the New Scotland Yard detective the story sounded almost like a Spanish soap opera his wife loved to watch.

"He was waiting for my in front of my dorm room. Said he knew what happened and that he can help me. He can make the accusations go away if I change my mind and take his offer. I refused again. And after seeing him few more times at the oddest places I left Cardiff, he was starting to freak me out. I moved to Gloucester and got a job in a tiny tea shop under a completely different name. But few days later when I returned into a bed-sit I was living in he was in the hallway opposite of my door. He just… he saw me, smiled and left. Walked past me and down the stairs like there was nothing wrong. Like he didn't tried to scare me into doing what he wanted by showing me how easily he found me. I left right the next day."

"How many times did that repeated?" Sherlock asked. This Andrew Moriarty was starting to intrigue him.

"Five. The last time he didn't even bother to show himself to me. My boss got an anonymous tip that I got fired from my previous job for stealing. I couldn't prove that it was a lie because my previous job was in a different town under a different name. That was when I realized I only have one option left." Molly clenched her hands into fists, "I saved my final dissertation on a disc, it was my most prized possession. Everything else I sold and bought a train ticket to London. With so many people living here I figured there are smaller chances of him finding me. But I didn't want to risk and starting to work again so I chose to stay on the streets. Homeless people are practically invisible. I was hoping it would keep me of his radar. And of his organization's too."

"What do you mean by organization?" Sherlock asked with a frown.

Molly shrugged, "I can't really explain but I don't think he works alone. I think he's on top of a criminal organization cause… cause of the things he said and how he said them."

"Unfortunately there is a little problem with your story." Greg Lestrade interrupted a staring contest between Molly and Sherlock and then both focused on him instead, "I did a background check on Andrew Moriarty. Or at least I tried. I didn't find a single trace of him. As far as the police is concerned he does not exist."

Instantly Sherlock jumped up from his armchair, startling Molly in the process, and rushing to the coffee table where his cell phone rested. He typed in a short message and turned towards the two individuals in the sitting room that observed him with interest.

He had no idea that a message saying "Do you have anything about one Andrew Moriarty?-SH" would cause his older brother to almost jump out of his chair much like he did moments ago.

But when a response "I'm on my way. " arrived Sherlock knew this case just became much more interesting. And despite the distance from Mycroft's office and Baker Street he managed to enter his brother's flat in under 15 minutes. So definitely an interesting case.

"Let me introduce myself." Mycroft said to Molly, completely ignoring the graying man in the room, "My name is Mycroft Holmes, I am Sherlock's older brother. He contacted me to see if perhaps I know something about Moriarty since I hold a minor position in British government."

A snort came from Sherlock and everyone turned to look at him, Mycroft sighing in annoyance. His brother was such a child sometimes.

He had no idea Sherlock actually tried to stop himself and failed. Mostly because he suspected that within a year or two his brother will become the British government.

"I am Molly Hooper." Her brows furred as she considered something, "Are you the person Wiggins called when we found Sherlock in Lenister Gardens?"

Mycroft instantly stood straighter, "I am. You are Doc then."

Molly nodded in response, expecting him to question her about why she didn't stay with his overdosed brother that night, instead of leaving him with a homeless man that had no medical knowledge.

But before he could the detective inspector cleared his throat, he was starting to get annoyed with these people.

"Can we get back to the subject here? This Andrew Moriarty and the fact the system says he doesn't exist."

"Oh, he exists detective inspector Lestrade." Mycroft said calmly as he took the second wooden chair from the table and placed it next to the one Molly was sitting on, "We have been aware of his presence in the criminal milieu for the past several years."

"And did nothing." Sherlock said coldly.

"There was nothing to be done. He is really good at covering tracks and never gets his own hands dirty. Which is why I'm interested in how you found out about him in the first place."

"Miss Hooper believes he is responsible for the deaths of five young women." Lestrade responded, eyeing Molly suspiciously.

"Oh." Mycroft turned towards the woman on his right, "May I know why you suspect it's him?"

"Because I've been checking the newspaper for any trace of him… a hint that he was in the city and that it was time for me to leave London."

"And death of five women was that hint you were looking for?" Sherlock asked, "Then why are you still here? Why haven't you left London already?"

Molly looked down and softly murmured, "Because I'm tired and I hoped someone would know how to finally stop him. Those women didn't need to die but they did and it was all because of me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade tried to understand what she meant but her words made little sense. Looking from one Holmes brother to the other he noticed they had the same problem.

"Alice Young, Julie Sawyer, Grace Clark, Eleanor Adams and Diane Scott are all common names. That is why I used them while I was trying to evade him. He killed them to send me a message. He killed the women who had the same name as I did." at the point Molly couldn't contain her tears anymore.

The three men exchanged a look. All three of them were now convinced, even Greg Lestrade, that they had the right man. But they had no proof. There was no paper trail to prove why those women, not real physical evidence. Only a word of a homeless woman.

And if Moriarty found her they won't even have that.

"Unfortunately I can not organize a safe house for Miss Hooper. Not without attracting attention." Mycroft said regretfully.

"But I can." Lestrade said, "It should only take me-"

"No!" Molly yelled, shocking all three of them, "I'm not going to a safe house. I don't think it would be as safe as you would like it to be. Moriarty is smart and he has smart people working for him. If my name is mentioned anywhere in any system he will find it. It will be safer for everyone if I stay on the streets. Homeless people are often overlooked."

"Often, yes. But not always." Sherlock pointed out, "He must already suspect you are in London which is why those women were killed. So there is only one solution. You will stay here in Baker Street."

"What?" Molly barely managed to mutter the question while Lestrade openly gaped at Sherlock like he believed the curly haired man was crazy. Only Mycroft didn't seem surprised by his brother's idea. Or he was very good at hiding his shock.

"There is an empty room upstairs and Mrs. Hudson won't mind. She's been mentioning the word flatmate every time I see her. So you will have a safe place to stay and I will have my landlady off my back. A win-win situation." Sherlock's logic made sense mostly to him but it made Molly laugh for the first time in months.

"Only one problem with this plan." She pointed out, "I'm not working anywhere. I can't actually afford to pay rent or groceries or utilities."

Sherlock merely waived her off like that was no big deal. And to him it wasn't since he had a fairly large trust account. And while he did get addicted to heroin he wasn't so far gone to spend the entire thing solemnly on his drug of choice.

"I believe this is settled then." Mycroft said pleased with this turn of events. His brother got an interesting case that would keep him away from drugs. A woman who had information on Andrew Moriarty, the thorn in his side, would be kept safe. New Scotland Yard will correctly solve five murders. And if everything goes well there just might be a promotion in it for him.

Sherlock is right. Everyone wins.

"Are you going against him then?" Molly asked timidly.

"Yes." Was Sherlock's short answer. He didn't even ask to see what his brother or Lestrade have to say.

"In the case the network might be able to help you with something." When the only response she received was silence from all three men Molly explained, "The homeless people in London have a network. We share information and help each other out. If asked they will help you."

"A homeless network…" Sherlock mused, "I can see the advantage of that."

* * *

When Molly Hooper opened her eyes the first thing she noticed was clean the ceiling over her and the soft mattress beneath with a fluffy pillow and a warm blanket making the unfamiliar bed feel like heaven. It's been months now since she slept in one and that last one was lumpy. Nothing like the soft cloudy one in the spare room at Baker Street.

Slowly she pulled the covers back and sat down, momentarily shivering after her feel touched the cold wooden floor. But the feeling passed and she couldn't help but smile. For a while she would be safe and have a roof over her head.

And when all this is over she will have a chance to start anew, maybe stay in London and look for a job. Or move to the countryside and enjoy open fields and clean air. The possibilities were endless.

But still so far away.

Loud banging of footsteps coming up the stairs startled her and she peeked out the door. As expected it was her new flatmate.

"Good, you are awake." He aid noticing the doors were opened slightly, "Come down in the kitchen. Mrs. Hudson is out and I'm hungry."

Molly's brows furred as the curly haired man turned around and went back down into the flat. She wasn't sure if he was offering her breakfast or in a rather odd way asked she makes it for both of them. He really was a strange individual.

Remembering her things were still in a black bag in the bathroom, unless he tossed them out, she walked out of the room in the same clothes she was in since last night. But not before looking under the pillow to see if her little pouch she made herself was still there.

It didn't contain much; just few pounds she received from people on the streets, the money she got from selling her things was long gone, and a cd containing her dissertation. She didn't even have her id anymore; she got rid of it months ago out of fear.

When Molly entered the kitchen the first thing she noticed were several cell phones lined on the kitchen table. They didn't look expensive, some she recognized as really old models that weren't popular anymore. But the fact they were there puzzled her.

"You mentioned breakfast." She said pulling her eyes away from the phones and focusing instead on the man frowning into the bowl of something.

"Yes. I need you to make it." Sherlock pushed the plastic bowl he was holding into her hands, "I made pancake batter."

Molly looked down into the mess in her hands and then back at the man that observed her closely, "With this?"

"You can cook, can't you?"

"Not sure I can do anything with this." Molly responded and tucked her finger into the batter before licking it. And instantly she gagged at the taste.

"What's wrong with it?" Sherlock asked completely confused.

"What did you put in there?!"

Sherlock pointed at the ingredients still lining the already cluttered counter and Molly placed the bowl down in the sink before taking a small plastic container from the mess. It contained small granules that looked suspiciously like regular sugar.

Sherlock obviously thought so too, "That's sugar. I put two spoons in."

"First of all that's too much." Molly said shaking her head, "And seconds of all this isn't sugar." At Sherlock's frown she added, "This is granulated citric acid."

"Oh…" was all she received in response before she turned away and opened the tap to fill the bowl with water. She needed to wash the mess away and make something else.

"What's in the fridge?" she asked.

"Mostly my experiments. I get them from Barts, smuggle them really since the idiot that works there won't allow me to have things I need."

She glanced back at the man behind her before going to the fridge and opening the door. Sherlock thought she would be disgusted but instead she hummed in interest at what she found there. It all looked very interesting.

And behind several jars containing miscellaneous body parts she noticed a carton of eggs and a piece of cheese that looked good enough to eat, there wasn't a blot of mold anywhere.

French toast with cheese it is.

"What are the phones for?" she asked as she mixed the eggs.

"Ah yes." Sherlock sat down on the chair and picked up one of them, "They are for the network. It's much easier and faster means of communication. I will need to get them on the street, though, and in the right hands."

"Give them to Wiggins. He will make sure they are distributed all across town." Molly responded not realizing her words made Sherlock smile slightly.

"He's in charge of the network, then?"

"What?" Molly looked at him confused, "No. But he's been living on the streets for years now and he moved all across London in the process. Unlike some who remain in the few block radius he is a nomad. And because of that he knows most homeless and they all know him."

Sherlock shrugged, "I suppose you are right. After all you know what world much better then I do." He threw the phone in the air and watched it flip few time before catching it again, "I have to say these are a much better investment then drugs."

"I'm glad you think that way." Molly murmured with a small smile.

When Mrs. Hudson entered the kitchen ten minutes later with a bag from Tesco she smiled upon seeing Sherlock and his lovely roommate eating. She wasn't sure what the girl's name was, Sherlock was rather ecstatic for some reason when he informed her last night that he found himself a flatmate, and she didn't understand half of the things he said. Although she did think the girl was actually a girlfriend and not a flatmate.

That would explain why Sherlock was in such a good mood.

Her darling boy. She will be forever grateful to him for ensuring her husband got what he deserved. That was why she put up with his eccentric behavior and took care of him despite being only his landlady and not his housekeeper.

But now with the girl staying in 221B Martha Hudson was certain she will no longer have to worry about Sherlock eating something at least once a day. His sweetheart will take care of him.

"How do I get in contact with Wiggins?" Sherlock asked after Molly started to clear out the table.

"He's staying near Paddington tube station. But since he now knows I'm staying here he'll probably moved closer."

"How could he possibly know that?"

"Because the window in the room upstairs has the view on the street and I saw him standing across the road last night. I signaled to him I would be staying here for the time being. And since he is my friend and he knows a bit about why I live on the street he will stick closer. Probably near Baker Street station."

"I'll look for him there then." Sherlock said standing up and walking briskly towards the room on the end of the hallway. Using common sense Molly concluded that was his bedroom.

When he returned, just few minutes later, he carried a sad looking backpack that he filled with prepaid cell phones he purchased earlier.

And then without another word he left the flat.

Molly washed the dishes from breakfast and looked around the messy flat. Since she now lived here she decided to keep it in order, it was the least she could do considering she wasn't paying rent. But she didn't want to mess with Sherlock's things without knowing what he deemed important.

So after few seconds of pondering on what to do she decided to go back upstairs and resume sleeping. Who knows how long she'll be staying here so she might take all the advantage of the soft and warm bed while she can.

She was asleep the moment her head hit the pillow and didn't wake up for hours, not even when Sherlock walked in the room to drop something off, scribbled a note and left after taking something else.

* * *

Several bags placed on the chest of drawers were the first thing Molly noticed after waking up from her nap. She knew for a fact it wasn't her who left them there so it must have been Sherlock.

At first she thought they were his and he simply stored them here but it made no sense. And once she got out of the bed and went to check them more closely she noticed a handwritten note under one of them.

It looked like a chicken scratch but she managed to read they were for her. He got her things he thought she would need. Molly just barely managed to stop herself from crying. No one ever done something like that for her.

She took out white cotton underwear from one of them, blushing like a tomato in the process. The second one contained dozen pairs of colorful socks. In the third one bad two pairs of tights and one jeans inside. The forth one had two basic shirts, a cotton pajama and a ridiculous jumper with cherries all over.

Molly giggled as she held it in front of herself while looking in the large mirror on the wardrobe door. Up until this item she thought he simply bought the most generic things he could find and couldn't help but wonder what made him pick this silly jumper.

She changed into tights and a shirt that was a bit too long and covered her bum and then she put on the jumper. It was a strange combination but she liked it.

Before leaving the room in search of Sherlock she peeked under the pillow and gasped.

The pouch was missing.

"Sherlock!" Molly shouted in panic as she ran down the flight of stairs and into the sitting room. Only to find the curly haired man sitting at the table, with his laptop in front of him, and with a familiar plastic disc case on the table left of his computer.

"Something wrong?" he asked casually.

"How did you find it?" she asked while trying to stabilize her breathing.

"It was halfway under your pillow, I was curious." Sherlock's voice clearly showed he didn't think he did anything wrong.

Molly opened and closed her mouth a few times, not really knowing what to say. She wanted to scold him for taking it without her permission or knowledge. But at the same time she wanted to ask his opinion on it since he was clearly reading it, she could see he had the document open on his screen.

"It scared me when it wasn't where I placed it. He took everything from me, I don't want to lose that too." She eventually muttered before sitting on the couch.

"It's a bit outdated now." Sherlock said turning back towards the screen, "Several new medical journals were published since you wrote this."

"I know. But I can't do anything against that. I don't have access to a computer or the new editions."

"You have now." Sherlock's words made her head snap up, "You can use my laptop; I only demand that you do not change anything on it. As for the journals I will have them delivered to Baker Street tomorrow. I know someone who probably won't mind lending them to me. That way you can keep working on this."

"Why are you doing this?" Molly had to ask. It made no sense. Stopping Moriarty she could understand, he considered himself a detective and wanted to stop a criminal. But why go as far as doing things like these for her. She wasn't technically a witness. She just knew things.

Sherlock's answer surprised her, "Because you are a bit like me. I noticed that right away. You don't just see, you observe."

* * *

**Please let me know what you think. **

**This is a fast pace story in 4 chapters so I am halfway done.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Three down, one to go! Let me know what you think.**

* * *

Molly Hooper merely lifted her gaze when the phone in front of her started to vibrate. It was another message from the homeless network, another clue Sherlock required, another photograph of Moriarty or one of his associates.

She ignored it, just as she ignored the grown man that suddenly stepped on the sofa next to her, making the pillow tilt towards him a bit.

To Mrs. Hudson's horror he tacked a map of London on the wall above the sofa and then proceed to make even more holes in it every time he tacked in another location on the man, all based on the images provided in those messages that kept coming.

Few times she offered to help but was refused. Sherlock preferred to do it himself, to make sure it was done properly. She found it ridiculous but decided to humor him. It took less energy then to fight him.

Of course she too left a mark in the flat.

It happened few weeks ago after a genuine skull found its way to the mantle. Not right away of course. No, Sherlock believed she would be just as ecstatic about it as he was so he knocked on her bedroom door one morning and pushed his arm in through the small crack, the skull in his hand.

Since it was rather early in the morning and Molly was half asleep a bodiless skull floating in the air scared the shit out of her and made her scream.

When she came downstairs after that event she found Sherlock in his beloved black leather armchair talking to the said skull. And all attempts to explain to him it was rather silly to talk to an inanimate object that would never respond fell to deaf ears. So Molly decided a demonstration is in order.

She used a spray-paint she found under the sink to draw a bright pink smiley face on the wall. In retrospective it was a stupid idea and right after she did it she realized she just ruined the wallpaper and that would most likely anger the kind landlady. But she got Sherlock's attention and earned a frown after she started to talk to the smiley.

They eventually agreed that Sherlock would talk to her about ideas he might have while she was living in Baker Street with him but pointed out that once everything was finished and she decides that it's time to move on he would go back to talking to the skull.

A skull Molly named Bill, after her former Anatomy professor, because it reminded her of the man. They had equally yellow teeth.

"Still nothing really helpful." Sherlock's muttering returned her to the present and she looked up at the man currently frowning at the large map of London.

"Give it time." she repeated her usual words.

"It's been weeks."

Molly sighed, "I don't think he's now to this whole criminal thing."

Sherlock instantly nodded in agreement, "Of course. He knows how to cover his tracks. But I just need one suspicious location."

"He will make a mistake Sherlock. And when he does you will see it. And you will make sure he goes down."

Sherlock Holmes looked down on his left at the woman curled on the sofa next to his feet. She was dressed in black tights and a large grey t-shirt that used to be his and that he gave her after it shrank in wash. It was still too big for her small frame. Her long brown hair was tied in a messy bun on top of her head and black rimmed glasses were on the tip of her nose.

Anthea delivered them together with three bags of miscellaneous clothing items. Apparently there is a camera somewhere in the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and who ever was watching informed Mycroft Holmes she sometimes rubbed her eyes while reading and possibly required glasses.

Sherlock was still searching for the said camera.

"Thank you for the confidence. It is appreciated."

"You are the World's only consulting detective." Molly said with a smile, using the title he mentioned giving himself, "If I can't have confidence in you who can I have it in?"

"Some do not agree with you." He didn't have to mention the newest member of the forensics team that worked with DI Lestrade by name for her to know whom he meant. He complained about this idiot Anderson often enough. Few times in the past weeks he got called by the detective inspector to serve as fresh pair of eyes for a case, and each time he clashed with Anderson.

Remembering the last time when he returned in the flat soaking wet and grumbling about imbeciles she couldn't help but smile, "There will always be those who doubt your methods. But eventually even they will have to admit your science of deduction is a real deal. I already do."

"You do?" Sherlock plumped down next to her and watched her face closely.

"I do. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

Sometimes after midnight, after Molly went to sleep and Sherlock was still in the sitting room playing softly on his violin a message arrived. A photography taken from distance but Andrew Moriarty was still recognizable. As was the Battersea Power Station.

Sherlock didn't waste much time pondering what the criminal would be doing in the long abandoned building. He knew whatever it was it wasn't legal. And perhaps just what he needed to bring him down just like Molly said earlier.

Speaking of Molly he decided not to go and wake her up. He didn't need the help she would more then likely offer. All he needed was an older pair of jeans with a large stain on the pant leg that didn't go out no matter how many times they were washed and an ugly brown jumper he received as a gift from his mother few years ago. It had a hole now from an experiment with drain cleaners that didn't end as planed.

And then there was something else he needed.

The clouds covered the moon making him nearly invisible in the shadows as he approached the part of the city he avoided since coming out of rehab. Yes, he claimed he wasn't an addict and could stop whenever he wanted but the call was sometimes too storing, even for someone who claimed his body was only transport for his incredible mind.

The dealer was exactly he suspected him to be. On his usual place. The same place where Sherlock found him last time, that night when he overdosed behind the deceiving façade in Leinster Gardens.

"Haven't seen you for months Shezza. Heard you got clean." The dealer said before giving Sherlock a devious grin, "But I knew you would come back for more sooner or later. The usual?"

"Yes." Sherlock answered shortly before handing his few wrapped bills in exchange for a little bag of white powder.

"Always pleasure to do business with you." Sherlock heard him call as he was walking away. He needed to find a good spot, somewhere near the plant, before he could get the second part of his plan in action.

By the time news about his brother's actions reached Mycroft Holmes Sherlock had already taken smaller amount of heroin then he usually did and was walking towards the abandoned building where Moriarty was last spotted by the member of the homeless network.

Hiding the entrance wasn't hard but Sherlock didn't want to go in through the front door. He wanted to catch them by surprise. So he went around, avoiding the guards that were posted here and there, until he reached the same entrance the criminal mind behind five murders used.

His mind was slower then he would have liked it but he wanted it to be authentic. He needed it to be authentic to raise his chance of getting out of this place alive and in one piece.

Sherlock stumbled and caught himself on the doorknob, accidentally doing what he planed to do all along, just less painfully.

The doors opened and seconds later Sherlock Holmes found himself lying on the cold concrete floor. Twisting around he suddenly found himself facing a barrel of a gun and instantly he froze, his constructed pupils widening just slightly and shortness of breath becoming even more pronounced.

He squinted at the person holding the gun but couldn't see the man properly; his face was partially hidden in the shadows due to a gaudy cap the tourists in London liked to buy.

"What is going on?" a voice suddenly called and Sherlock moved just a bit but enough to see an older man dressed in a three piece suit, similar to the ones his brother preferred, walking in through the side door. Behind him, through the open doorway, Sherlock could see several men cracking the large wooden crates open and taking out pieces of what could only be weapons.

The gun laws were strict in United Kingdom and the sentence drastic. The penalty for possession of a prohibited firearm without a certificate is a maximum of ten years in prison and an unlimited fine. So even if the police failed to get Moriarty for murder they had more then enough on him for possession of guns. And considering the amount that would fit in those crates it's easy to deduce he's planning to sell them.

"A junkie just barged in. Was about to take him out." The man holding the gun pointed at Sherlock answered.

Moriarty shook his head, "Never get your hands dirty unless you positively have to, James. Have someone else drag him outside and rough him out a bit. That should be enough to teach him a lesion. No need to attract unwanted attention."

Two minutes later Sherlock was being dragged out of the Battersea Power Station by two gorillas. Ten minutes later he had two broken and three cracked ribs, on top of a small concussion. The fact he was already coming down from his high wasn't helping either.

So when a black car stopped not far from where he was sitting leaned on the building Sherlock was actually grateful his all seeing brother knew when and where to come.

Mycroft wasn't man behind the entire British Government already but Sherlock knew he wasn't that far away from that position.

And he was just about to hand him a criminal they were hunting for a while now on a silver platter.

Mycroft bloody owed him… and Molly too since none of this wouldn't have happened if she wasn't brave enough to speak to him. Sherlock already had an idea what kind of payment he should require for all of this from his older brother.

* * *

It was loud banging and shouting that woke up Molly. She sat in her bed and looked around in fear, thinking she would see Andrew Moriarty coming from a dark corner and it took her few moments to calm down and remember she's safe. And then she realized the shouting was still happening and it was much louder now.

She got out of bed and put on a dressing gown that hanged on the back of the door. It was one of Sherlock's, a red one he said he rarely wore. She slowly opened the bedroom door and peeked outside. There was light coming from down the stairs.

And Sherlock's loud baritone made it more then obvious he was one of the individuals in the sitting room.

When Molly found enough courage to go downstairs she was welcomed by a sight of Sherlock Holmes curled on his beloved armchair and his older brother waiving his umbrella around while he lectured his younger sibling.

It was Sherlock who noticed her presence first, and upon realizing he no longer had his brother's attention Mycroft turned to see what distracted him. And found himself face to face with a person he held partially responsible for his brother's stupid decision.

"Miss Hooper, when you came to life here with my brother I have expected for you to make sure he doesn't go out and start using drugs again!" he snapped at her.

With a groan Sherlock got out of the armchair and approached Mycroft, "How many times do I need to repeat it? It was for a case! It was necessary to get information on Moriarty and I would have done it even if Molly was still awake and tried to stop me!"

"A case…" Molly mumbled before approaching Sherlock calmly. When he turned towards her to say something else words got caught in his throat as a loud slap echoed through the sitting room.

Mycroft blinked in confusion. The petite creature just slapped Sherlock and it appeared she wasn't finished.

"Molly-" Sherlock started to speak but she cut him off by pointing a finger at his face.

"You… you took drugs for a case? You will never do that again, do you hear me?! No case is worth of you risking an overdose. I am not worth of you risking an overdose."

"Molly-" he tried again but she wasn't done yet.

"If you ever do it again I won't stop on just one slap. You can expect at least three. And you can also expect me informing the homeless network to keep an eye on you. If you ever buy drugs again I will know."

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth several times, not really knowing what to say. His mind as racing and it had nothing to do with what he found at the plant. He tried to comprehend why Molly believed she wasn't worth the risk. He didn't have friends, he never tried to form friendships, and he probably never will. But she was something. A companion at least.

She was worth the risk.

"Did your stupid stunt at least bring any results?" Mycroft interrupted the tense silence.

"If you are wondering if I got you what you need to bring Andrew Moriarty down they yes, it did bring results." Sherlock responded, "There were several crates in one of the side rooms, the men were taking out weapon parts from them. They are easy to recognize; large, grown and with Cyrillic writings on them. Your men won't have a problem locating them."

Molly looked at Mycroft, "Won't the police be handling it?"

"No." the stoic man answered, "The MI6 will."

* * *

The assault was organized perfectly to the last detail in extremely short time. Not having anything against legwork but not wanting to be in the way of the younger and far better trained men Mycroft Holmes waited for the green light before he entered through the same doors as brother just hours earlier.

The eerie silence in the first room was being interrupted from time to time shouting from the backroom where Sherlock said he saw the weapons filled crates. Mycroft moved in the direction jut as a team leader stepped in doorway.

"The Station is completely secure, sir. All teams responded, combed it top from bottom. They found evidence of criminal activity in several places, mostly drugs. The crates are secure as well."

"How many injured on our side?"

"One, sir."

"Moriarty and his men?" Mycroft asked as he followed the team leader into the room containing illegal firearms.

"Three men are dead, seventeen arrested and waiting for transport. Moriarty is over there." He pointed to a far corner where a medic dressed in black tended to an injured person lying on the floor, "I take full responsibility for failing to take him down without harming him. He was the one who took down one of my men and all attempts to negotiate his surrender failed. He just kept shooting on us."

"None of his men fired at you?" Mycroft asked with a frown.

"Only four of them were armed. Three are dead. One surrendered."

"Good, good…" Mycroft said with a nod before he walked in the direction of the wounded criminal mastermind. He looked over the medics shoulder and saw a man dressed in a three piece suit, not unlike the ones he preferred to wear, only this one was cut open and the medic desperately tried to stop the bleeding. The wound was on the shoulder but unfortunately, by the amount of blood around the man and the fact all attempts to stop the bleeding or at least get it under control failed, it seemed a major vane was hit. There was no way he would survive, not even the paramedics who were rushing towards them could perform a miracle Mycroft needed to get more from the man about his criminal empire.

But Andrew Moriarty didn't plan to go without a final message. He coughed, choking a bit on the blood that filled his mouth and opened his eyes.

Mycroft didn't know how the man knew who he was but he chucked a bit when he noticed him behind the group of men trying to save his own life. No idea how the criminal knew his name, but he did.

"Mycroft Holmes… you honestly thing you succeeded at stopping me… you only stopped Andrew… but you will never stop Moriarty…"

"He's dead, sir." A paramedic said few seconds after the criminal muttered his message.

Mycroft just nodded and turned around to leave. He had nothing to do here anymore. As he walked on the cold night air he pulled out a cell phone from his pocket and dialed his brother's number.

Sherlock preferred to text but Mycroft knew this call he would answer.

This time Molly didn't mind being woken up by Sherlock Holmes. He came to her room after disconnecting the call to his brother and shook her awake.

"What?" she mumbled still mostly asleep.

But his words woke her up completely, "Mycroft called. Andrew Moriarty is dead. You are safe."

* * *

At Sherlock's insistence Molly remained living in the spare room at 221B Baker Street. That was where Mycroft found her a week later.

She was sitting on the couch, a cup of tea that had gotten cold on the coffee table in front of her, and a thick medical journal in her lap. She didn't seemed to even notice him entering the flat and would most likely continue to ignore him if Sherlock didn't enter the sitting room from the kitchen and greeted him in his usual nice way.

"What are you doing here Mycroft?"

Molly raised her head and smiled at the older Holmes sibling, "Oh, hello Mr. Holmes."

"Do call me Mycroft." He responded and Molly nodded in agreement, a wide smile still on her face. Something that made Sherlock groan.

"You still haven't answered my question." Sherlock pointed out after getting comfortable on his armchair.

"I am here to inform Molly she is now cleared of all suspicions regarding the hacking of the Cardiff University server. Also to inform you Barts and The London School of Medicine and Dentistry accepted you as a medical student and since you almost completed your studies you will only require complete the courses you haven't already. Your file from Cardiff has already been transferred, now wiped clean of the false allegations against you."

Molly carefully closed the medical journal she was reading and placed it on the couch before she gracefully stood up, approached Mycroft and then took the stoic man by surprise when she threw her arms around him and hugged him.

Sherlock of course chucked at the look of discomfort on his brother's face.

"You were important in stopping a dangerous criminal. It's the least he can do." Sherlock pointed out, "No need to hug him."

Molly let go of Mycroft and pulled back, a bright blush on her cheeks revealing she felt a bit awkward at the show of gratitude.

She turned towards Sherlock to point out, "You did more then me. You got the info they needed to go after him. I just… I don't know what I did…"

"You made it all possible." Sherlock said, "Mycroft tried to get something on Moriarty for years and nothing. You showed up in Baker Street and weeks later he's dead. You did that because you were brave enough to trust a complete stranger and tell him your life story."

"I couldn't have worded that better myself." Mycroft said, "Although it wasn't that we didn't have 'nothing' on Moriarty it's just that we didn't have enough."

"It's the same thing." Sherlock said rolling his eyes.

"It is hardly the same thing." Mycroft responded.

Seeing that the two were now far too caught in bickering and from previous experience knowing it could take a while Molly returned to her medical journal. Now she had a good reason to keep up with the new methods.

* * *

It took Molly two months to complete all the courses she had left and graduate. And right away she was offered the position of the special register at Saint Bartholomew.

During those two months she remained in Baker Street with Sherlock, but now that she got a job she thought it would be better if she lived closer to the hospital. Sherlock supported that decision, saying now that he consulted a detective inspector Lestrade he sometimes required to play his violin to think and it bothered her cause it kept her from sleeping.

So with his blessing and assistance she found a small flat few streets away from her new job of employment.

Her last night in 221B Baker Street they spent eating Chinese takeout in the sitting room and discussing the future plans.

"Of course I will assist you in any way I can." Molly said after Sherlock asked if she would be of assistance when he worked on the cases, "I am forever in your debt for what you did. You saved my life."

"Then perhaps someday you will save mine." Sherlock responded before suddenly the small smile vanished from his face and he looked morose as he did when Mycroft visited.

"What is it?" she asked worried.

"Moriarty left a warning before he died. He told Mycroft we haven't really stopped him."

"But he's dead." Molly pointed out.

"Andrew is dead. He hinted Moriarty isn't. So either he wasn't the real Moriarty or-"

"Or it's a title rather then a name." Molly finished for him, "When one is killed someone else will take his place and his name. Possibly even someone he trained especially for that cause. Like in that pirate story."

Sherlock nodded, he knew exactly which story she meant. He knew it would take much more to stop the criminal empire. But one mastermind is dead, and that is a start.

"Mycroft and I made plans. We will try and identify as many members of Moriarty's empire in England as we can. We'll go global later. That will eventually catch the attention of who ever took Andrew's position. I will most likely catch his position since Mycroft will work from the shadows. It will draw a target on my back. And because of that I have to ask something of you."

"What do you need?" Molly asked, not knowing she would eventually repeat it in a moment when everything will seem lost for Sherlock.

"I need us to act like we aren't friends. To keep you safe I will need to make you seem insignificant to me. I'm sorry."


	4. Chapter 4

**The final chapter. Sorry about the delay, I got sucked in another fandom.**

* * *

"_What do you need?" Molly asked, not knowing she would eventually repeat it in a moment when everything will seem lost for Sherlock._

"_I need us to act like we aren't friends. To keep you safe I will need to make you seem insignificant to me. I'm sorry."_

The plan had worked out well. Too well, perhaps, because other morgue workers soon started to perceive Molly as someone who desperately tried to make the obnoxious Sherlock Holmes notice her. But even seeing her like that didn't stop them from admitting her professionalism and dedication to her job.

A job that was often complicated by the appearance of the consulting detective who needed to see a body and he needed to see it now. And after one by one they got insulted by him they were all more then happy to let doctor Hooper deal with him.

That suited them both just fine.

When a year later Molly entered the lab with a cup of coffee for Sherlock she didn't think anything about the unknown man that stood next to her boss Mike Stamford. She just smiled at the man with a cane and handed Sherlock a cup.

She didn't need to see his face to know he was frowning the moment he took a sip. The toxic waste that was considered hospital coffee did that to people.

She was just about to leave when he asked, "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me." Molly responded.

"You fond out he has a girlfriend." Sherlock said casually referring to the man that started to work as a lab technician recently. A man she fancied.

"Wife." Molly corrected him.

The consulting detective sighed, "There is always something. How do you feel about violin?"

The sudden change of subject made Molly pause and look back towards the curly haired man only to see him looking at the unknown blond man. The man who noticed the questioning look and was surprised by it as well.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I told Mike this morning I'm looking for a flat mate. Hours later he brings his old friend, who recently got discharged from the military, on medical grounds I presume. Wasn't that difficult a leap. So… violin. I play when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days. Would that bother you? I believe flat mates should know the worst about each other."

Molly didn't stay to hear the rest. She was far too worried she would start laughing hysterically.

The violin and the silence were among Sherlock's better treats. And she feared the blond man would soon found out too. The hard way. Just as she did.

With a small grin Molly made a mental note to ask Sherlock if he used the Miracle Berry Fruit Tablets on the man. It was her revenge, the night before she moved out of Baker Street.

Half the tablet she slipped in Sherlock's tea changed the way his taste buds worked for an hour and his reaction was extremely amusing. She eventually took the other half and they had a blast eating disgusting food combinations that for them tasted really good.

She left the remaining nine tablets to Sherlock, on his insistence. She guessed his brother may or may not have ingested one next time he came to visit 221B Baker Street.

* * *

Molly heard about the explosion on the telly that morning and was rather worried about Sherlock. So when she overheard one of the technicians complaining he got thrown out of the lab she knew Sherlock Holmes was safe and sound.

She peeked through the small window on the door and saw him sitting in front of his favorite microscope, a pair of shoes on his right and his flat mate behind him. A sound signal came from the computer.

"Found something?" she asked in a cheery voice as she entered.

"Possibly." Sherlock mumbled.

Before she managed to say anything else the blond man that no longer walked with a cane interrupted, "Could you hurry up? We don't have much time left."

"I am working as fast as I can." Sherlock said angrily, "This is why I like my old flat mate better. There was no nagging."

John Watson frowned, this was the first time he heard about Sherlock having a flat mate before him, "You lived with someone else before? What happened to him?"

"Doc moved out." Sherlock answered calmly while he stared at the computer screen trying to connect the dots.

"What kind of name is Doc?"

Before Sherlock managed to respond the lab doors opened and an unknown man peeked in. The consulting detective was seconds away from shouting at the bloke to get out when Molly beat him to it. In a way.

"Jim… come in. I would like you to meet Sherlock Holmes and his friends doctor Jack Watson."

"It's John…" the blonde man corrected her, "John Watson. Hallo." He gave a little wave.

"Oh, sorry." Molly mumbled, rather mortified, "Anyway, this is Jim."

"Hi." Jim said with a wide grin before turning towards Molly, "Fox, tonight at 7?"

She nodded, "I'll be there."

"Okay, bye!"

When Jim left and Molly turned back towards Sherlock she found the consulting detective observing her strangely, "What?"

"Apart from getting a boyfriend you also got a cat. Quite a few changes in your life."

"Yes? So?" she tried to understand where Sherlock was going with pointing out all that, but with him one can never know.

"Nothing. It suits you."

Molly frowned, "What? Having a cat and being in a relationship?"

"No." Sherlock responded absently as he picked his coat from the table and put it on again, his scarf following seconds later. As he was leaving the lab with his friend behind him Sherlock turned towards her and added, "The three pounds you put on. You looked far too skinny before."

Molly gaped as he left before saying, "Two and a half." to the empty laboratory.

Suddenly the door opened again and Sherlock peeked in, "Three."

* * *

Molly was on her way out, she had a lunch break and planed to go and meet Billy Wiggins. She offered him to stay in her flat but he refused claiming he was a free spirit and couldn't settle down in four walls. But he never refused Molly when she showed up with take away.

The burner phones Sherlock got for the homeless network were still out there and few times she got a call or a message in the middle of the night when someone got hurt and needed her help. She may no longer be homeless but she was still considered one of them, she was still Doc.

Her plans were destroyed when Sherlock and John came from the opposite direction and Sherlock made her turn back towards the laboratory saying she'll be having lunch with him.

"Why?" she asked rather confused.

"I already told you your Jim from IT is actually Jim Moriarty, a criminal mastermind, who somehow managed to break into three highly protected places at the same time. When I first met him I deduced he was gay, but this is much worse."

It happened two months after Jim came to the lab while Sherlock was there. It was after midnight when Sherlock broke in into her flat and Molly was ready to hit him with a cricket bat she kept in her bedroom thinking it was some criminal. Instead she hugged him when she learned whom he faced earlier that night.

The next Moriarty.

But now another information caught her attention and made Molly stare at him in surprise, "Gay?"

"That is what caught your attention? Honestly Molly." Sherlock deadpanned.

John rolled his eyes, "Sherlock."

"What?" he turned towards his friend, "I was being kind and didn't tell her right away in the lab what I deduced. You keep telling me I need to be nicer. Wasn't that not nice of me?"

John Watson merely sighed and walked through the door that led towards the main laboratory. He knew arguing with Sherlock was like arguing with a wall.

Sherlock turned towards Molly before he followed John and saw her looking at him, tears pooling in her eyes. She felt guilty. She felt like a fool. And he understood her. After all he didn't see it either. He didn't realize who he was up against until he saw the CCTV from the Tower of London. He recognized that cap.

Jim Moriarty was the man that planed to kill him that night in the plant. He was the apprentice of Andrew Moriarty, and also one of them men that were arrested during the raid. Mycroft's men obviously thought he was harmless pawn and released him. Idiots.

Jim Moriarty obviously wasn't just a pawn and he wasn't stupid either. He must have recognized him from one of the newspaper articles and realized he was the junkie that accidentally barged in their hiding stop. And now he holds Sherlock responsible for the raid and Andrew Moriarty's death.

"I'm sorry." She mumbled eventually.

"Not your fault." Sherlock responded and he meant it. He didn't have time to tell her the whole story but someday he would.

* * *

"I don't count." Molly said with a sad smile and Sherlock felt like someone poured a bucket of ice cold water over him. For a moment he couldn't breathe, couldn't move. He was shocked that she honestly believed that. Yes, he acted differently around her, acted like she wasn't important to him but that was for her sake, for her protection. He explained that to her, said he would do it and she agreed.

Sherlock wondered if perhaps he was a bit too convincing in that lie.

That was why he came to her that evening. To tell her how wrong she was. And to ask for her help.

And after the fall he stayed at her flat, hiding from Moriarty's network and those he left behind to grieve his death. And the irony of it didn't escape him.

"It's just like before, isn't it?" He said one evening after she returned from work, "Only this time I'm hiding in your flat."

"Not like before." Molly said with a small smile, "From what I can remember your flat mate had better manners, cooked and cleaned and didn't take over your room."

Sherlock waived his hand, "Semantic."

Molly snickered before filling the kettle with water and placing it on the stove, "Has Mycroft called yet?"

"Yes. He has everything ready but insists that I stay put for at least two more days to make sure no one is watching. I have to admit it is a good idea." He admitted, albeit reluctantly.

"No worries, I won't tell him you said that."

Sherlock muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'thank you'.

* * *

When Sherlock returned two years later things were a lot different. For starters Molly was now engaged to a lovely man she loved. But one look at Sherlock Holmes, in the reflection on the mirror she kept on the inner side of her locker in Barts, and the old spark returned. And here she thought it was extinguished for good.

Another change was their general relationship. No longer did he treat her coldly, instead they acted like friends that they were. John was confused by it at first but then accepted it with a shrug. He believed it happened after the fall, while Sherlock stayed with her, as the consulting detective admitted when asked about who helped him and where he went after jumping from the roof.

But John Watson was soon proven wrong.

And it all started when he went to find Jackson Whitney in a drug den and found Shezza. In retrospective it explained why Sherlock looked apprehensive when he said to Mary he was calling Molly because Sherlock needed to pee in a jar.

Molly looked up from the microscope when they entered the lab and frowned at the sight of Sherlock in a tracksuit and looking like he hadn't showered for a week. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips together. She recognized that particular garment.

But to John and Mary's surprise she didn't say anything to Sherlock. Instead she focused on the homeless man that whined about the broken wrist, but the whining stopped the moment she looked at him.

John watched with interest as she walked past Sherlock and stopped in front of the man whose wrist he merely sprained, he knew how to sprain people.

"Why didn't you call me the second you learned he bought drugs and was using again?"

John and Mary shared a confused look, not understanding why someone who was obviously homeless call Molly or why he would even know her number. John suspected perhaps if he was one of those who helped Sherlock to fake his death but it was farfetched.

But the man never managed to answer when Sherlock repeated the same excuse he told them, "It was for a case."

No one expected for Molly Hooper, the mouse from the morgue, to turn around and slap Sherlock so hard it echoed through the laboratory. John thought his lower jaw would unhinge and fall off.

And then two more slaps came. And Sherlock never moved or tried to block them. He accepted them before he bowed his head.

"I told you this would happen if you did it. I told you no case was so important you should take drugs and risk overdosing. Again. Damn it, Sherlock!"

"I'm sorry." He mumbled and Molly smiled sadly.

"My promise stands Sherlock. I will always be in your debt and will be there to save you, even from yourself."

* * *

She waited for him in her office at Saint Bartholomew Hospital. She knew there was no way they would send him to exile now, not with the broadcast appearing on every single screen in England.

So it was no surprise when the morgue doors opened with a bang and the World's only consulting detective marched in like he owned the place, his coat flying behind him like a cape.

What was surprising is that he marched to Molly and hugged her tightly.

Mary snickered behind them, and elbowed John gently. She was rooting for them to finally get together. She had no idea what kind of history they had but she suspected it was more to it then John knew.

And she was proven right when Sherlock pulled back and took Molly by her arms, "Are you ready to help me again?"

Molly smiled, "Of course."

"It could be dangerous." He pointed out.

"We already dealt with two Moriarty's. What's one more?"

John's head snapped in their direction, "What do you mean two Moriarty's? Sherlock?!"

**THE END**

And no, there is no sequel.


End file.
